Return to King's Landing
by GhostRelic
Summary: A prequel to Return to Riverrun (although, you can read them in any order). The initial prompt was to write a Sansa/Tywin story in which Jaime has been traded for Sansa. This explores some of that time leading up to the trade. :::: [COMPLETE]
1. Chapter 1

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Negotiations were in progress, and Tywin Lannister knew better than to let a crucial trade-piece out of his sight. In the capital, there were far too many opportunities for a girl to slip away and become someone else's pawn - the old lion simply would not allow that to happen.

Hence, on a bright and sunny morning, rather unremarkable from any other, Lady Sansa was marched into the large formal solar within the Tower of the Hand; a tiny wide-eyed figure dwarfed by the Lannister guards surrounding her. She stood bewildered and more than a little frightened. No longer would she be permitted to flutter about unattended; bleating for the attention of the King or Queen Regent. Her station no longer bona fide.

She was little more than scullery maid as far as Tywin was concerned, and if the North wanted to waste their potential for gain on one worthless child, then who was he to correct their idiocy.

With a lazy flick of his fingers, the soldiers followed the unsaid order of their liege and made their way out of the room, soft clinks and metal tapping upon metal as they went.

Those sounds were innocuous, Sansa thought. It was the deep thud of the door closing behind them that was ominous, final. Gooseflesh raced the length of her arms, up her neck, and seemingly tipped her face upward with its wave - to look upon _him_.

The Hand of the King was a tall man; not overly thin, and broad at the shoulders. Sansa discerned that he was surely taller than her father - inwardly cringing at the horrible jape ringing through her mind in Joffrey's voice: _More than a head taller, now_. She shook off the disgust and took in Lord Tywin once more. He was bald, but she thought it suited him, and he had thick lines of whiskers running the height and most of the length of his jawline.

_A mane for a lion_. She smiled a little at that, then made it vanish just as quickly.

The look he wore on his face was anything but pleasant. His brows sunk low over his eyes, and his mouth held no trace of mirth. It was different seeing Lord Tywin up close. At a distance he merely looked serious, but at only a pace away Sansa saw deep creases at the sides of his mouth and across his forehead. She had seen the same type of lines etched in the faces of others, but only as a sign of anger.

Lord Tywin was grim, of that there was no doubt. Even his eyes, so green and shimmering in the light of the large fire, were as cold as the gold he was known for.

Sansa didn't know if it was a trick of her imagination, but felt an icy shiver run the up her spine.

He did not seem to notice her discomfort, or rather he did not care. Instead, Lord Tywin offered another flick of his fingers, this time toward the large fireplace in the room. Without much thought, Sansa followed the gesture as she had seen the soldiers do and stepped in the direction of the hearth. It must have been the proper endeavour as Lord Tywin accompanied behind her.

There, laid out like the bounty it was, were only the finest of materials and numerous spools of thread with accompanying needles of gold at varying lengths. The girl's mouth opened as she took in the supplies, then, turning back to face him, her voice and words both absent, she snapped her maw closed and blinked.

It was like he could read her thoughts. From what she had seen of the man, Lord Tywin always seemed to know what people were thinking, and though he had not addressed her exclusively, even in that room, Sansa never really understood just how uncanny it could be.

"I had a wife, and I have a daughter," he said, flat and unwelcoming. Yet he raised a brow as though to call her simpleminded.

Sansa startled at the motion and fumbled to apologize for insulting the man. _Already_.

"I-I… A-apologies, my lord. Thank you… Your generosity… is most k-kind, and-"

His eyes narrowed and Sansa recoiled minutely, trying to understand what she had said or done to offend the Hand. _Again_.

Tywin looked down his nose at the child, through half-lidded eyes and arrogantly drawled, "Keep your simpering to yourself, girl. In fact, don't employ it at all within these walls."

Sansa's mouth had full-run, and even though she spoke out of concern, not curiosity, it all came out like an accusation. Peevish and sullen. "But... _Why_?"

The old lion hardly had patience for his own children. Her pointless question made him clench his jaw and grind his teeth. It also reiterated that he possessed even less tolerance for the children of others.

A noticeable shadow passed over Lord Tywin's features, and it was as though the whole room tinted grey. The crush of tension made Sansa feel altogether inadequate. Not simply the way she was normally made to feel in King's Landing, but as though the very air she breathed was only allowed because they shared it. And even then, it was an ill-gotten favour.

"Because it is a waste," his voice was so low it landed like rocks at her feet, "...of your effort and of _my time_." He leaned down a fraction and was pleased to see her lean away that same amount. "The only people who demand such conversation are people you can be sure _do not_ _matter_."

At that, his glare traveled from her eyes to the hem of her skirts and back again, slow and deliberate, his sneer deepening on the journey. Before she could be offended or afraid, Lord Tywin flicked his fingers once again. This time it was a move so subtle, so sly, Sansa was unsure it happened at all. When he straightened to full height a moment later, their conversation at an obvious end, she knew her eyes had not deceived her.

Without a word, wearing the most serious and lady-like face she could muster, Sansa dipped her knees and her head, taking her leave, and quietly walked away. When he was satisfied there would be no more fuss or further frivolous discussion, Tywin went about his day.

In settling with her needles and thread, Sansa spared a look under her lashes to Lord Tywin. He was powerful... No. No, he was incredibly _daunting_. He was the Hand of the King - _of more than one king_ - and he had given her a glimpse of how he worked, of how he was made up on the inside.

Whether he had meant to show her that part of himself would remain unknown, but she was not so dull-witted as to misunderstand the significance. Her septa had instilled in her that courtesy was a lady's armour, but Lord Tywin easily debunked that fallacy and taught her something entirely new: that courtesy is only effective on those who seek it.

Sansa Stark had been thoroughly educated in the span of a heartbeat and a handful of words; a true lesson in this very real world of men… and monsters. One of knowing when to be silent, and one of listening to the unspoken.

Albeit, aptitude and practice, of any skill, will always be two completely separate matters.

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Their companionship was an odd one. It took nothing for Sansa to understand that plainly.

When the Hand held council, she would sit and wait in a guarded antechamber. When the Hand had business elsewhere in the castle or outside its walls in the city of King's Landing, Sansa would follow him like a tiny auburn-topped shadow and wait silently while he concluded his dealings.

She could not help but notice the way people of every rank and description cowered away from the man as he walked, eyes averted and heads bowed down - as though giving Lord Tywin their eyes would also give him their soul. It was more than a fearful reaction, she noticed. It was more so a mixture of both fear and reverence, accompanied by a strange sort of hopefulness.

And that was the entirety of it: when Lord Tywin opened his hand to you, there was equal chance he would strike you down with it as to help you up.

She also saw the way people looked at her, and her exclusively, with looks that ranged from pity to annoyance. The ones she hated most were those who gawked mockingly, as though she were a dog nipping at the haunch of a lion.

The last thing she wanted was to be someone else's pet. It was the way Joffrey summoned her in front of the court, the way he still summoned her when they were alone: a finger pointed at his feet and a sharp whistle she knew meant to stand where he had pointed. Only now, instead of at court, her company was requested in the evening, after she had eaten at his table as an honoured prisoner. After being sent back to her rooms…

She shuddered out of her thoughts, hissing softly then shifting, sitting up straighter, making room between her back and the chair.

Coaxing her lungs to take air more slowly, Sansa relaxed again and cast a tentative glance around the room she was openly tucked away in.

Of everything - of the perpetual waiting, of the unsaid opinions, of the foul episodes that became most of her nights - what Sansa found she liked most, that she had come to enjoy, was the quiet of Lord Tywin's solar. It was large in both breadth and height, and there was enough distance from the hearth to the desk that light noises were lost in the air between and did not bother her. Even when Lord Tywin hosted company inside the room, conversation was as easily ignored as she herself.

The room had become her haven; a place where she could lose herself in the details of the craft in her hands or the bright images and stories in her mind. She could think and reminisce without smothering under the weight of scrutiny.

In the course of a given day, sunlight could be seen stretching in progressively longer, blazing lines from the windows behind Lord Tywin toward her cozy island of furniture. By the time the bright slashes made it close to her, she knew her time with the Hand was almost at an end for that day.

_That time of day_, Sansa was coming to dread. It was a time of day that meant she was no longer the shadow of a god, mostly unnoticed and always left alone. It was the time of day that once more distinguished her as the scapegoat for every treason the King felt the North had incurred.

She shifted again. Hissed again, but this time not so quietly. Lord Tywin's head snapped up and his eyes flicked directly at her. He knew exactly where his irritation was rooted. Sansa braced herself for his ire, immediately felt sick in her belly. She had seen the tide in him change more than once, and sometimes those frightening waves lapped a bit at her feet.

Her thoughts were broken off, interrupted, and flitted to nothing as those late-day beams of light begin to shine. They were cut through by the brisk tread of the Queen Regent. And although the pattern against her eyelids was jarring, from black to bright over and over again, the fact that her day would be prolonged was rather a relief.

Settling back into the rhythm of her needlework, Sansa let her mind wander as it was prone to do, but all too soon she was brought back by the gradual raising of voices - Lord Tywin's being heard first.

"I will not have you side with your son and his stupidity when I bring this matter before council. If you insist on being there, you will make yourself useful."

Cersei blinked slowly. With her face twisted in utter contempt, she turned her head to look at the pathetic cause of such an uproar.

"Don't look to _her_ for answers," Tywin scoffed.

The Queen Regent snapped her focus back to her father, disgusted he even think such a thing. She sneered, "Is it wise to discuss matters of the Crown with a traitor in the room?"

Tywin looked at his daughter levelly. There was pause and what could pass for consideration in the eyes of the old lion, before he spoke to her - rather slowly. "And whom will she tell, Cersei? You?" He watched; counting the emotions baldly coursing through his daughter's countenance, waiting for it to end with what looked like sobriety, but was more likely defeat. He did not care which; it simply meant she was listening. "By the time this exchange is made, any information discussed in this room will be negligible." The lion panned his gaze, hard and sharp like the end of a blade, past his daughter to his charge, and spoke at the volume for the girl's benefit, "And if she has designs to speak of it before hand, her tongue will be tacked to the wall."

Sansa made a whimpering noise in her throat, not daring to meet his stare - she knew the Hand was looking at her, just as she knew he was speaking the truth. She then made a harsher sound - choking on a yelp - when the needle in her fingers slipped a stitch and pierced the pad of her thumb.

The fabric was a deep crimson. It hid her fault.

The golden needle had embedded deep. It hid the thrum of her other pain.

"Do you understand your own duty, Cersei?"

The Queen Regent nodded at her father. Keeping his eye, showing she was invested in his wishes.

The token did not prevent Tywin's look of disappointment or the statement to match. "No. Tell me, in _words_, your intent. That is how bonds and alliances begin. Did you learn nothing from me?"

"I learned, Father." Her words were gritty and strained in her subdued fury. "And I will help to ensure Joff sees the gain and potential of trading Jaime for Lady Sansa."

"Good. Leave me." Lord Tywin waved a curt dismissal at his daughter, glaring sharply as she left - watching for a sign in her posture that would give him insight.

There was nothing to see once Cersei crossed the visual path of his guest. His pet. The little wolf brought to heel. It was quite the jape in conversations intentionally outside his hearing. There she was, prim and out of place in her gaudy northern gown, covered from wrists to chin, juddering in a none too subtle way - squirming in her seat like a dolt about to soil themselves.

His blood burned with pent up resentment.

The resonating _thunk_ of the outer door caused Sansa to startle, jostling her shoulders - she sucked in a quick breath and set to make herself inert once again.

She did not notice that keen green eyes held her firm beneath their lofty survey. Though she jumped in alarm at the clear, menacing voice that cut through the buffering gap and speared her with an icy terror.

"Continue to fidget in that chair, Lady Sansa, and I will _bind you to it_."

How a threat could be so casually made, like calling for wine, she would never know. Yet it wasn't enough to stop her discomfort, to cease her twitching effort to find a way to sit that didn't make it hurt. And by the time Lord Tywin's agitated stare turned into a furious rage - standing to make true on his promise - she was weeping fat tears and stuttering fearful apologies. Silently cursing her body's refusal to force itself still.

Lord Tywin's approach was like a storm - you knew it would be brutal, but there was no indication of exactly when the first strike would come.

"I'm s-sorry! M-my Lord!" She wailed, then saw in her mind, her tongue being tacked to the wall and bawled all the harder. Joffrey was cruel, but this man petrified her.

He stopped a pace away from her. And, without so much as a hint of compassion, inspected her. Eyes roved, lips thinned, and she waited for Lord Tywin to lash out - perhaps with his fists, or perhaps with the strength of his guards...

She kept crying, it could not be stopped - hot tears in thick lines down her cheeks - and Lord Tywin did not care. She was weak and of no threat - a pup in the teeth of a lion - and Lord Tywin did not care.

Heartbeats may well have been hours. Sansa had begun to pray for this man to act, to show her in truth what she would endure. It never came. And _that, _that kind of secret furor scared her more than anything. Of all the moments lived in King's Landing, this was the one that defined for Sansa her worth. Truly. She was nothing to his man, nothing at all. She may as well have been a sack of coins, cold and lifeless, something to be traded. But even then, she thought - no, she knew, _she_ _knew!_ - her worth in the calculating eyes of this awful man would be of the lowest copper.

"Stand up."

She could do nothing else but keep his eye as best she could through her tears and obey the Hand of the King - every time she blinked she saw her blood spilling. Using only the strength of her legs, not wanting to move her arms and back any more than she had to, Sansa shook and swayed and bit at her bottom lip as she rose. But even the subtlest of jolts were part and parcel of Sansa's prior agony, and she whimpered, pathetic and long, at the wellspring of hurt.

The sound infuriated him, a red-hot burn that started in the pit of his belly. It was a simple instruction, and the stupid bitch keened like his was beating the skin from her. The thought snapped rabidly in his mind, prodding, and teasing the worst part of him. The dark place inside that was encouraging him to act, to do just that: teach this little cunt what honest pain really was.

Ladies could be made to suffer just as much as the rest, in different ways, more ways, _better ways_, and the notion was not one to worry his conscience. Not even remotely.

His lids grew heavy at the thought of that suffering, watching her drown in her own despair became something of a bore. Although as she turned at the waist to set her sewing to the side, her body jostled. There was no scream from the girl. No scream, just a wet face streaked with tears and snot and etched in a type of misery that caused the blood to drain from it.

_This_ was of interest. Tywin narrowed his eyes and noticed that the riot of hair she left untended had moved across her shoulders, exposing her nape. He never mentioned Lady Sansa's utter lack of sense when she walked into his solar dressed for winter on this, the hottest of days. But neither did he question it.

It was a hunch that had him step closer, her shoulder and arm near to brushing the long line of tiny gold buttons that marched from hem to collar on his doublet. It was his ire that had him growl near to her ear when her eyes grew wider and continued leaking. That same hunch had his left hand raised, palm out, in front of her, a gesture of entreaty - more so a silent action telling her to submit and cease wriggling.

Her mouth sagged, puffing out a rapid percussion of moist air and squeaky mewls onto his forearm. Sansa begged her body for peace, and waited for Lord Tywin. Waited. She was expecting the lion to grip and shake her viciously, very much like a cat with its unlucky prey - an act to snap the poor thing's neck… or merely to toy with it. In contrary, she felt the lightest touch on her hair. Not on her skin, nothing to make the hurt worse; it was as though Lord Tywin was moving each strand of errant hair individually, cautiously.

Whatever his intention, Lady Sansa lost her fight to remain steady. She trembled under the Hand's mindful treatment, bowing her head to help show him what he was sure to find.

One more tress of auburn swept aside and he could finally see the reason…

Finally understand...

There, down the span of her nape, to the gap of the ridiculously high collar of her gown, where it had come away from her neck, lay something amongst the flush that had ascended her skin along with her fear. Piqued, Tywin flicked her hair further along, studying the tendril of red that had caught his attention.

He did not have to examine it closely to identify a fresh angry welt. It was raised above the blush and deeper in colour, an ugly contrast to the girl's pale complexion.

Untangling his fingers from her locks, the old lion stepped away. There was no dawn of empathy in the man, there would be no explanation; he merely left her, head slumped down, pitifully sniffling into her chest.

She heard the door unlatch. The fingers that naught but heartbeats before tended her, opened the latch with the same amount of care. She heard Lord Tywin speak. The voice that naught but heartbeats before spat at her in spite, carried the words with the same amount of cold.

"Summon Lady Sansa's handmaids," he ordered.

The door shut after that one command, then the cadence of steps became first louder than fainter as she assumed Lord Tywin walked past her and further on to his desk.

Sansa did not dare move a muscle more than the shivers she could not control. Her sobbing breaths had evened some, and she could only imagine what her face looked like: eyes bloodshot and swollen, nose red and overflowing. Long strings of viscous mucus hung down and clung to the front of her pretty wool dress that was far too warm, but covered all the right places, sticking to the slightly disheveled fabric.

Yet she remained static.

It was primarily survival at that point: she was staid, and remained unharmed. Her mortification a paltry tax, considering.

After what felt like days, there was a light sound - the servant's door - and the airy footfalls inherent to the help of any keep.

Sansa felt the warmth of being flanked on either side, but refused to move until she was told to do so.

"Turn her," Lord Tywin instructed disinterestedly, much the same way he would refer to anything unimportant, and continued, "Loosen her gown. Expose her back to me."

At that, the older of the two maids hesitated, then strayed toward stupidity. "H-here, m'lord?"

The old lion did not speak a word, though his jaw flexed and eyes narrowed at the servant thinking to question him. From the look she returned and the way she quickly set about her task, he had been clear in his unspoken instruction - one that told the maid she would pay dearly for ineptitude, and more for insubordination.

The women worked wordlessly, expressionlessly, and in tandem. When Sansa raised her head and exposed what would usually garner low hums and noises of judgment from those who tended her, she was answered with absolute silence.

They spared her bedragglement not even a second glance in their work to undo the lacing and layering holding the wool garment in place. But moments later, in a slick step while the maid was directly in front of her, the younger woman, shorter than Sansa by at least a hand, softened her eyes at her charge and hastily produced a square of fabric - hurriedly wiping and scrubbing away the muck from her nose and any traces of tears.

The work was efficient, and in minutes the women had opened her gown, pulled it as far down as it was wont to go at the back, and gathered all the material to the front - in Lady Sansa's arms - to spare the girl a shred of modesty.

"Leave, and pack your lady's room." Lord Tywin sounded closer. Sansa flinched at the clip of his tone, then fought to breathe levelly.

The women left, and again she and Lord Tywin were alone.

"When did this happen?" There was no difference in the way the Hand addressed her and her handmaids, it was all harsh and accusatory.

The girl had begun to turn toward him as propriety demanded; reflexively Tywin's hand came up as a signal for her to stop. His voice hardened with an air of authority, "No don't..." He cleared his throat lightly. "There is no need to turn around, my lady, simply answer what I've asked you."

Wide eyed and obedient, she turned her back to him fully. "Last evening," she said at just above a whisper. Her voice rough and hazy from the torment she wore. "I don't know the hour, my lord. I was roused from sleep."

She heard a soft grunt from behind her, but made no move to turn or to talk.

Sansa had lived many humiliations, most all of them public and vicious, yet it was in the privacy of a room in the company of only one man, she felt most embarrassed - most ashamed for the state she'd been tortured into. The fact that she was no longer desirable as a wife, to anyone, was something she kept tucked well beneath her grief and her fear. But under the scrutiny of the Hand of the King it was a crushing reality that made her heart ache.

"How thoroughly have you been lashed, my lady?"

This time it was more an effort not to twist and look - Lord Tywin did not sound as he should have, his severe tone had vanished. Though Lady Sansa quickly got over her perplexity, preferring not to encourage the man's ire.

Sansa could not think of the right words to politely describe that of which he was inquiring; deciding instead to move her hand behind her - motioning from where she felt her gown still covered her, lower down her back and over her backside to finally, with a bend of her knees, indicate with a stretch of her arm that fresh wheals and old scars marked her to her calves.

Silence.

Soft steps gained volume, then Sansa was looking at the back of Lord Tywin's doublet. He walked to the door, and she took in the inanity around her, unknowing how exactly he wanted her to proceed. She couldn't very well stand there, partly dressed, for the rest of the evening.

_But she would if the Hand told her to_. Sansa winced at that truth.

He stepped just without, but door did not close completely, and Sansa stood shivering, listening to Lord Tywin command those standing outside the room.

"Ready a suite here in the Tower, somewhere above mine."

There was a muffled voice, that of a man, and Sansa could only assume it was the sound of affirmation.

"There will be guard detail at every entry - red cloaks only - on full rotation, even if the rooms are unoccupied, understand?" Again there was a noise of agreement. "And find suitable women to be in the Stark girl's service - need I tell you to look outside those of the Keep and Crown? Good. You. Summon Pycelle to these chambers and tell him to treat the girl."

Confusion. It was the easiest word Sansa could conjure how best to describe the way she felt. The man who had confronted her with a rage so absolute she expected the ending of her life; _that same man_ was now working to ensure her safety.

From condemner to saviour.

Sansa used the heel of her palm to stubbornly dash away the pools in her eyes. A preemptive measure to forestall tears - _more tears!_ - these ones gathering to mourn her ready conviction of knowing the good from the bad; knowing who had virtue inside them despite the unpleasantness outside. For Lord Tywin wore both equally, hid both equally, and he had, in the span of less than one afternoon, perforated every shred of armour she had.

He didn't want her courtesy, he didn't want her tears, he didn't want her fear, he didn't want her to pay her brother's debt...

In a city that perpetually wanted something from her, _to take and take and take_, Sansa knew then that the most dangerous of men was the one who had no blatant want of her at all.

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** A huge thank you to my beta, content developer, researcher, sounding-board, and internet life-partner: dealbreaker19 **

** A nod of acknowledgement toward telanu for giving some much needed insight into this chapter. Thank you so, so much **

_(Any mistakes are mine alone. I tend to fiddle and tweak - up to posting)_


	2. Chapter 2

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It was edging into a sennight since he had moved the living quarters of Lady Sansa, when Tywin's steward woke him. His guards in the Tower had turned away more than one attempt from white cloaks to summon her.

The hour was late - _too_ late if the glowing coals in the hearth by his bed proved anything. He made a low rumbling noise as he arose; the old lion knew it was only a matter of time before the girl would be sought. He had not made a secret of relocating her, but he had not announced his decision either.

As he stood and shook away the last dregs of sleep, Tywin felt that muzzy disorientation being replaced with the sharp focus of ire.

Stupidity was dangerous. Allowing stupidity to fester was reprehensible.

His instructions stood: Lady Sansa was to be left undisturbed. Seeing as he was not, Tywin issued more instructions: the King and Queen Regent would meet with him in the throne room - at _his_ leisure.

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The sun had not yet risen, but the first ribbons of orange, the clawing of a new day, streaked low on the horizon to announce its imminent arrival.

Lord Tywin was well awake. Fed, bathed, and left to his temper, the lion stalked his way to meet with his king.

The throne room seemed noticeably large when mostly full; it was peerlessly vast when mostly empty. And to give one a true measure of the great hall they occupied, it only required the softest noise to result in an offensively loud ring.

A thundering rhythm, ominous in the shallow dark just before dawn, made by level steps on heels of wood and soles of hardened leather announced the entrance and approach of Tywin Lannister.

The effect was exactly what he wanted.

Stopped near the dais, the old lion saw the boy-king had perched himself haphazardly on the throne as his mother sat quiet and alert on a comfortable bench beside him. Lines of men stood wraith-like in the shadows, overseeing the area that would be thick with courtiers in the daylight. And one man standing just by the King - a giant of a man as dangerous as the pointed chair he stood behind.

Lord Tywin did not preamble.

"If you, or your dog, step one foot higher than my apartments, I will consider it an act of war." The sentiment was so glacial, it was a wonder the air that made it did not condense as the old lion spoke.

"Father-"

When her father turned to address her, Cersei stopped cold, ate whatever her next words would have been, and willed her son to remain silent. Lord Tywin looked at his daughter, his blood, his child, without rage or annoyance. Without any emotion at all.

It was the demeanour he carried when bodies were sure to be left in his wake.

It was the face of the Stranger, and was utterly terrifying.

"Shut your mouth," he droned.

The words, much like his gaze, scored Cersei straight to the bone. She had failed her father, her word was her bond, and she had broken it. Punishment awaited her, that was assured, she just did not know when it would come or in what form it would take.

The Great Lion then rounded his fury and attention back to the King and said frostily, "The little girl you find so much pleasure in beating is our only negotiable tool to bring your uncle back to us - perhaps end this bloody war - and move on with what's important. And if you think for one moment I value you or your title above my son or the realm, you are thoroughly mistaken.-"

"Grandfather..."

"-The blood of kings is nothing to which I am unaccustomed, _Your Grace_."

Joffrey's face stained from an angry red to a vibrant purple; his apoplexy practically poured off him. "Y-you can't speak to me like this..."

"Yes. I can."

Lord Tywin's voice was lifeless, but his eyes caught fire in a way Joffrey recognized. It was the spirit of violence he had seen in his own eyes sometimes, but in his grandfather it surfaced without the uncontrolled anxiousness that caused the boy act without thinking.

It was as if Joffrey's own mind defied him; just thinking it, he charged ahead - impatience tethered to his ego.

"I'll... I'll have you arrested!" the King wailed.

Everything happened in increments: the Queen Regent closed her eyes, looking pained. The Hound stepped away from the throne, quickly and lightly, but Joffrey did not hear a sword being drawn. The fire, the spirit, once dancing in the eyes of his lord grandfather snuffed out in the blink of an eye, leaving only violence.

"Then _do so_."

King Joffrey knew then that if malice made a sound, it would be the hollow ferocity of those three words spoken by his grandfather. It scared him. And what was the defense of a cowardly boy prone to uncontrolled emotions?

Threat.

"Seize him!"

Joffrey's order came out as a panting screech, and it only took a moment to realize it would be the only noise associated with it in the throne room. The King turned his head sharply, first right then left, observing for the first time the rows of red and gold soldiers on either side of the grand hall - his own guards in white noticeably absent; save the Hound.

_The Hound. A gift from his mother, the Queen, to her prince and future king._

King.

"I am your _King_!" His head now whipped from one side to the other, a shaky finger pointed directly at the lord incurring his wrath, his face snarling at the large man beside him. "Dog! I _command_ you to arrest him!"

This time his words were laced in panic. Fear making his intonation tremble. More so when he met the eyes of his grandfather - there was nothing there, dead and rotten, not even Lannister smugness lived there.

The Hound looked on impassively. Staring out into the room as though nothing existed around him. There was no inclination in the large man, not to protect his charge, his king, or even to acquiesce to the whim of the Great Lion.

Sandor Clegane knew all too well who in that room held authority; he also knew in order to circumvent punishment from either was to favour neither.

The King expected his Hand to bellow orders of his own, to teach him the lessons his mother quietly hissed at him if his will started to outshine hers.

The Great Lion held his tongue and instead took a measured step toward the dais, quashing the King's assumption, and bathed in the quaking fear emanating from the boy who sat in that sharp, rusty chair. Each subsequent step was internally met with the forcible binding of his own rage, the waves of which he felt coursing turbulent and anticipatory through every muscle that made him.

However, Lord Tywin was not one to indulge his power openly. The fear generated by conjecture alone, to those stupid enough to heed that sort of thing, was far more than he had ever needed to display.

Assumption breeds doubt, and in that doubt the Great Lion has always found victory. Let the withering fools underestimate him; let them lead themselves to slaughter. For once the waste is discarded, those who remain are unerringly compliant.

After a methodical march upward, he was standing in front of the boy, over him; Tywin twitched his jaw in appreciation of the King's palpable dread.

In a calm, reassuring voice, Lord Tywin said, "Your Grace's time is worth far more than to be squandered on the daughter of a traitor, no?"

King Joffrey nodded, squirming uncomfortably on his throne.

"Permit me to relieve you of that burden, Your Grace."

What should have been a question to a king was a politely inflected command. But with the tension practically crackling between them, King Joffrey heeded his fright.

"Of course, grandfather," he squeaked, his voice breaking from high to higher.

The old lion was placid and incomparably poised. "Very well, Your Grace."

In one swift pivot - the turn and systematic descent of the Great Lion - peace was restored, command was reestablished, problem behaviour was well laid to rest...

And deep-set fury still resonated.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sansa sat quietly with her needle and thread in the Hand's Solar. Alone. She had been left alone before, but never had she entered and the room been empty.

Lord Tywin rose and began his day at an obscene hour. Sansa had learned fairly quickly that her preference to sleep in through the morning was something of an offence to the Hand. He never said a word to her when she would be quietly escorted into the room well past dawn, having broken her fast in her room, but the look of unconcealed judgment glittering in his eyes felt too much like the disappointment she had earned from her father on the rare occasion her attitude turned horrible.

It was far easier to wield a needle while her morning grumpiness faded than it was to take even one step under the green-eyed displeasure of her Lannister companion.

It helped that her walk to the solar was greatly reduced now that she was in the Tower once again. She wept that first night back. Sobbed because it was her father's tower, and that's what she knew it as. Her rooms were different, that was a small mercy, but the sadness of loss was still there - would always be there.

She heard the latch of the door before it had time to rattle and unlock. Over the past moons, Sansa had developed an almost uncanny sense as to when the door to the great solar would open. It was a boon in that she no longer jumped every time, in turn saving her fingers from sharp jabs and pain, but it did nothing to stop the foreboding shiver that stole heat from her flesh as the Hand entered.

It did not take an additional sense for Sansa to know Lord Tywin was seething. From under her lashes she watched him glide rigidly through the room toward his desk, but was careful not to make eye contact when he turned and looked at her.

He was furious and accusing, a combination dangerous in most men - something altogether deadly in the Great Lion. Lord Tywin paced and growled and huffed and muttered until he sat down heavily behind his large, ornate desk.

The Hand was noiseless after that, and Sansa thought nothing of it for a while. But when she still hadn't heard even the shuffle of parchment, she raised her head purposefully to see him.

Lord Tywin was staring down at his desk, but not at a scroll or a book, and Sansa wondered with all the intellectual capacity of a girl so young, if he was examining the wood for something in particular. Straightening and standing very slightly from her seat, Sansa felt a wave of utter foolishness at her first inclination.

He was seated, shoulders slumped, his hands resting on their sides atop the desk - not clasped or even occupied with a quill, just lying there. Trembling. Lord Tywin's hands were shivering, but the rest of him was a statue - carved stone curled in on itself and somewhat piteous.

Sansa immediately felt her heart rend a little, immediately felt the need to comfort him.

It was something she simply did for those around her. It was a part of her that never required thought or deliberation: the desire to offer solace - no matter the one in need. It was that part of her that had her stepping soundlessly to the side of Lord Tywin and, ever so softly, bending her fingers in the pocket between his quivering thumb and forefinger, and squeezing with the same care.

Quaking hands stilled.

The creeping cold of hesitation clawed into her bones far too late.

His violence was unnervingly efficient. Without looking, Lord Tywin snatched his hand away from the offensive touch and used the swinging momentum to grip like a noose around a surprisingly delicate length of neck.

She had been lifted off her feet and arched over a small pile of documents, her head, neck and upper back pressed firmly into the unforgiving wood of the desktop. Sansa knew not to move. Not to struggle - it only made things worse.

How horrible is a life when the onset of violence prompts not fear, but a learned response to ebb expected pain?

_He didn't want her tears, he didn't want her fear..._

Sansa could feel the warmth of Lord Tywin when his hip brushed against, then stayed next to her own - where it perched awkwardly on the edge of the desk. All of her lower weight pooled at that one spot, and the wood was already cutting a sharp line into that fleshy part of her.

That pain meant nothing when she saw his free hand settle, palm-down, on the wood surface close to her nose. She noticed then that his hand was scarred. Little nicks and long spidery lines crisscrossed over the top of his hand...

The grasp on her throat was loose, but meant to keep her in place. With her back arching severely, Tywin knew the girl must be suffering. Her wounds would not have had time to become whole, and the pressure at her shoulders would have been enough to exasperate that hurt.

Though her eyes welled, she made no sound. There was no wailing or sniveling for her pain, no pleading for mercy or begging for respite. The silence, instead, accentuated her breathing - paced at a run as her head stayed turned; she was focused on something else entirely.

The Stark girl was managing to deflect her agony, and the lion was more than curious. For that's what she was, a little girl, and Tywin had known grown men who would have wept, defeated in the light of what Lady Sansa was enduring.

Not that it prompted him to relinquish his hold at all, nor his indignation.

"_Why would you think to touch me, girl_?" he snarled down at her. Nothing loud or bellowing, but slick and malevolent. A disturbing unsaid promise to squeeze where he held her at the throat.

He leaned in closer to her; exerting even more pressure, feeling her pulse under his hand, how it picked up and became erratic.

Her silence stretched long; the air in the gap between them hung parched and dry, and Tywin thought he had surely frightened the voice from the child - a conclusion he felt held merit. She had obviously become far too accustomed to him, being in his presence, felt she had some sort of liberty to be informal with him.

She most certainly did not.

The girl was nothing more than a token for the northern savages; one to win back his son, and one to that would surely wedge peace into a realm needing solidarity for a potentially volatile future.

Nothing more.

Sansa thought she knew of anger in men. Thought she had seen enough of it to understand and anticipate when it was to be hurled in her direction. Yet, in being held down by the grave man with the grave face, Sansa felt the sharp, ripping fear one only experiences when their expectations are murdered right in front of them.

She knew then that anger was undefinable, differentiating from man to man, person to person. The recognition slipped into place, as did the horrible notion she had been so wrong.

The Hound frenzied in his anger, frothed at the mouth, and hated everyone around him - including himself. Joffrey's anger was violent, manifesting in physical harm and death. Queen Cersei's anger came as words, kind words sometimes, and as actions other times, but never from her own hand. The anger of Sansa's own father was something quiet, never announced, but easily seen when his manner became stiff and his seriousness deepened.

Sansa kept her head still and slid her eyes to look at the Great Lion.

Lord Tywin, as he hunched over her in that moment, a predator set to feed, was every single one of those things. His fury was felt in the shivers of his hands, the polite bite of his words, and in the subtle pinch of his normally solemn features. Though what truly scared her, what burrowed into her chest like a spike of ice, was the hollowness of his eyes.

Sansa had learned very quickly that to live in a room with the great Lord Tywin was to never ignore the burning flare or, equally, the calming quench found in his green eyes. She knew that when he was silent he was at his most dangerous, but she also knew that every word he did not speak was read true enough in flicks and glares and narrowing of those same eyes.

Tywin watched a spike of panic visibly wring through her; blue eyes widening and flicking away from his as if she had been approached by doom. Or perhaps, he considered briefly, given the girl's most recent history, her state could be attributed to a different face of it.

He took a deep breath in through his nose and, although his grip did not cease, his voice held the faintest taste of curiosity.

"I ask again: why would you think to touch me?"

The girl made no sound but shifted slightly, swallowing heavily into the pressure of his palm. Lord Tywin watched as though it were an event he was seeing from outside himself, something happening to someone else: her hand lifted a little way and gently covered his.

Lady Sansa's hand was small in comparison, yet equally fine: long, tapered fingers and narrow to the wrist. He watched that delicate hand settle over his larger, as much as it was wont, where it laid on her throat, and though it was trembling as much as the rest of her, she did not hesitate its placement.

Lady Sansa spoke then. Nothing but a quivering whisper toward the long away place that held her attention, "You were... sh-shaking, my lord."

As the words found voice, the delicate hand, that was so eerily familiar, gently patted his. It was a gesture, Tywin considered, that would most certainly have been patronizing if administered by any of his children, or any_one_, truly, save this little wolf.

What an innocent creature, he thought. Not an animal or an element, but some clash of stars somewhere in the night: she was incandescent and ancient in a way, in a way that caught his breath against his will. He then thought just as clearly that it was no wonder the child would be clambered for to return to the sentimental North. She would be quite the treasure, this young maid with an old strength inside her, sold to the lord who had most to offer...

The lion loosed the hand about her neck and brushed his thumb along the ridge of her jaw, stretching so the pad rested on the point of her chin. Using the faintest pressure there, he turned her head slowly toward him. Blue eyes coming to view green, and the old lion tilted his head as though he were appraising her.

He was. She knew. This was how he looked when he was dealing in trade. Sansa waited for the scowl he wore when mercantile goods were at a value less than what they were claimed to be; she waited for him to be disappointed.

It never came, that frown she expected; the judgment that she was worthless commerce outside a trade of child-for-child. His eyes narrowed a little, but that only meant he was thinking. Then, as quickly as it took for the Hand of the King to pin her down, he grasped each of her upper arms and lifted her to her feet.

Dizziness and slight nausea were Sansa's initial feelings upon being upright, but his hands stayed in place, keeping her steady until she was able to look at him without her head wobbling. Even then, Lord Tywin let her go slowly to ensure she had her feet.

"It has been a trying morning, my lady." The Hand spoke in his usual cold, serious way, but there was no edge to his words. Not like Sansa had heard before in that room. "Find your seat and let us finish it without further incident."

His placidity told her that he had moved on from what had just happened. But it also struck her as curious, because Lord Tywin did not address her touching him. He didn't tell her not to…

The lion gestured toward the hearth and the chairs there, a signal Sansa understood. She also understood a little of the hesitations buried in these southron men, their suspicion of console. Thoughts of the Hound fleetingly entered her mind, then she found herself answering Lord Tywin's curt nod with a brief curtsy of her own and walking back to the seat she had occupied in his solar for the better part of three moons.

Lord Tywin would not presume to inquire if his actions had injured her, and Sansa was not so stupid as to wait for him to ask - or even expect it. She had been educated in her time in his presence, and that one would die before hearing regret or apology from Lord Tywin was a very early lesson.

Her pain was nominal, nothing compared to the tortures she had endured at the urge of the King, at the edge of a blade. She would continue to survive, simple as that. Live to be delivered to her mother and brother, as long as she compelled the goodwill of the man who shared the room with her.

He looked on as the girl went to the chair she had claimed; one that was neither the most comfortable nor the most ornate. Observed every step, every swish of her gown, and every nuance she showed in gaining her comfort as she sat and resumed her embroidery - mute and seemingly consumed in the task. Although, he could easily tell she was watching him as well, from under her lashes, in her periphery.

The little wolf was circumspect. The old lion was glad of it.

A corner of the his mouth twitched - whether in amusement or in judgment, he was loathe to consider too closely. Lady Sansa was far more than a clueless maid deep in the den of lions; neither was she witless or blind toward events and people around her - her effort in regard to him spoke _that _truth rather loudly.

Though, curiously, it was her youth she held out in front for all to see, for all to criticize.

While most wore their life and miseries openly, Lady Sansa replaced them with a mask of childish ignorance and propriety. It was then that Lord Tywin concluded, with far more heed than he had ever anticipated, that the Stark girl was, in fact, a far better liar than anyone had expected.

His neck started to redden in an unexpected wash of anger - the cast-off of what he was truly feeling, and was bitten back all the same.

Envy.

Envy was something exceedingly rare in the Great Lion - in _anyone_ who could afford to purchase what they desire. Although, when it _did _happen to surface, considerable effort was taken not to twist it into rage. But _this_, this feeling was something that did more than prod his temper. What he felt building was opportunity, one of a pure and uncommon kind.

Lady Sansa was truly gifted, if only because she had no idea her talent... or her potential.

Tywin scoffed lightly, drawing the attention of the girl. He held rapt her gaze and knew she would not flinch at his - not as it was presented then and there, not now.

Lady Sansa, of the savage North, _let_ those around her presume her dull. It was a farce he himself had fallen for - a man known to take toll of those who'd thought to deceive him that way. But her ruse was hardly malicious, not that he could discern at this initial glance, and it was, with some begrudging honesty, that the old lion smirked his respect at the little wolf.

She blinked at him, rapidly for a moment, as if deliberating the unknown curl on the mouth of the great Lord Tywin, then fell still as she made her choice.

The little wolf offered the old lion a grin of her own - barely there, as subtle and gentle as the whole of her, but real all the same.

He felt himself oddly pleased at that; however, even a quiet signal is a signal nonetheless. And whether it was a cue for change between them or a flash of warning amidst them, that was yet to be distinguished.

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** A huge thank you to my beta, content developer, researcher, sounding-board, and internet life-partner: dealbreaker19 **

_(Any mistakes are mine alone. I tend to fiddle and tweak - up to posting)_


	3. Chapter 3

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Sansa had never heard a debate inside the throne room climb to such a high volume. It was passionate, furious, and more than a little frightening - for her, at least. Most courtiers had been dismissed; the lords and soldiers and messengers left were pertinent to the discussion and far too many to be easily accommodated elsewhere. She herself was relegated to an outer wall, boxed in tight and unable to move.

Her Lannister sentries stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking most of the scene from her view. However, the towering presence of her red-cloaked guards did not impede her hearing.

The ugly topic bandied amidst the stable of _knowledgeable_ Southrons: King Robb's folly. A rash decision, a broken trust, and the resulting benefit: a tightening coil that had wound dangerously around the throat of the North - a noose held firm in the hand of the Crossing.

Regardless of fault or explanations, the misstep was an advantage for the Crown. One deemed open enough, foolish enough, to be laughed at publicly. Although, that same repugnant mirth evaporated with the voice of the Hand.

"And how should we pursue this whip-hand, Your Grace?"

His words were cool and hard in their address to the King. His eyes carried the same steel, cowing all those surging like an unruly tide at the steps of the dais.

They had been negotiating for moons, ravens and arbitrators sent back and forth to from King's Landing to the Riverlands, closing the gap of conflict. But as news of the northern king's stupidity leaked and trickled through the inevitable cracks with more and more detail, so at the gates of the capital did arrive an entire Stark delegation.

Tywin could appreciate the maneuver. The North would secure their own place before the Crossing had a chance - and they sweetened the pot with a show of faith. The northern commission had also brought Jaime.

_That _maneuver was reckless - there was now nothing stopping the Crown from keeping all the pieces and warring on. Yet as brash as it was, it was not obtuse. The North must have had an inkling as to the reasons the South and the West were discreetly pushing for peace.

And when the dragons did indeed come, the numbers a king in the North could warrant far outweighed the dense tottering of an elderly lord. The hold of the Freys could be taken outright, by force, if needs be.

"I want their heads!" screeched the King. "They were idiot enough to come here; they should join what's left of their other lord!" Joffrey smiled something malicious as he ducked and bobbed on the throne, as through his mind had become unstable, trying to catch a glimpse of the target his verbal lance was meant for.

The Great Lion panned the room as well, satisfied the Stark girl had stayed concealed, and refocused his attention back on Joffrey - making an effort to loosen his jaw of aggravation before speaking. "It is true, Your Grace, fools die faster. However, these men have presented themselves under the banner of peace. The more prudent tact would be to offer them lodge and a meal; it will give you time to consider-"

"Put them in the black cells!"

Tywin discreetly faced the King then, his words for the boy alone. "A sign of trust is a room _above ground_, Your Grace." The King scowled sourly, and the corner of the Hand's mouth twitched. "Give them highest rooms in your tallest tower and place twenty men on every door." The old lion watched Joffrey's scowl merge into a sneer - the one that meant his suggestion would be heeded.

Joffrey barely blinked out of whatever scenario was dancing in his mind, mumbling absently, "Yes, yes... Highest towers, tallest rooms..." Flipping a limp hand to carry effect.

"As you command, Your Grace," Lord Tywin said, intoned with a healthy share of both seriousness and irritability. "Allow me to act on your behest," he looked at his grandson with an unwavering glare, "Your Grace must be tired."

Joffrey knew those words were his dismissal. The gnawing part of him, the part that would ignite argument into panic, had begun to rear its petulant head. The tight squeeze of his mother's hand on his forearm deflected the oncoming tantrum; pinching it into merely the bitter look of a truly spoiled child.

He was defeated. For now.

With an announcement made in a voice that skittered to even the deepest shadows of the room, Lord Tywin dismissed the extended counsel and ordered accommodation of the northern negotiators still encamped outside the city walls.

The stink of men grouped together, debating and working themselves into frenzies for hours ebbed with the bodies it clung to. Tywin waited, stood tall atop the dais, breathing in deep lungfuls over and over until he no longer subsisted on putrid air. Only then did he call for her.

The little wolf hidden in plain sight.

From behind her screen of broad men, she walked to the base of the dais. Lord Tywin waved away those eclipsing the girl - the girl who was now more than a nominal interest.

Her guards parted like a curtain and marched away, their footfalls losing more and more resonance, ending in a drawn out rumble - that of the throne room's huge outer doors closing. Sansa was left standing in a place and position with which she was all too familiar, staring up to a man who was all but a stranger.

Lord Tywin stood arrow-straight; coupled with the height of the dais, the man looked far taller than he had right to. Sansa could see the sharp points of the throne peeking around him and thought of the trees in the godswood of Winterfell. Remembered how she would sometimes look to the highest branches, where the leaves were drenched in sunlight, and marvel at the rich red they bore - darker, bloodier than the others below.

Willing herself free of remembrance, from the chill it brought her, Sansa floated her gaze to the Great Lion perched so high above her and to the steel aura that seemed to emanate directly from his body. In that moment, Sansa knew she was looking at a king.

A true king.

The little wolf caught his eye dead-on. The gasp her lungs refused to hold inside would have been lost in the lightest of breezes. In the empty throne room, it echoed like a taunt around them.

_A fearsome king_.

Heavy was the glare he wore, one that weighed more than enough to put her on edge. Lord Tywin was taking stock, deliberating.

Settle a truce or fight for the North; wade in blood and snow and continue to battle for years to come or sling an accord of amity. The Great Lion looked directly at the girl standing dignified under his inspection; hers was such a practiced bravery.

She was going to need every morsel she could devour.

Marriage, Tywin considered, would be naught but gain - for all. The easiest conclusion, the one he knew had been the reason for the North approaching the way they had, was the one he found most unappealing.

A quick trade. The northerners would take Lady Sansa back to the Riverlands and sacrifice her at the altar of retribution. She would _not_ be sold to the lord with the most to offer. No, she would be flung to the Freys as appeasement. As a way to mend the damage a stupid boy had provoked when he was at first tempted, then impelled to near ruin by the wagging flesh between his legs.

_Fools die faster_.

Indeed.

There were spears of rage cutting with a quick fury where his spite lay, cajoling the lion to let Robb Stark die for his indiscretion. His skin spoke a different language, calming tones: the phantom lilt of paths drawn by the delicate hand of the subject of his rumination.

But what of her worth? Truly? For the West, for the Crown, she held an almost limitless usefulness if angled correctly to impact the North. But what of her price? He looked intensely at the little wolf. Was hers a sum too precious? Was hers a fare he could afford? Truly?

Tywin bit down, flexing his jaw. The girl would be wasted in the hands of the Freys; broken and bred, she would not survive - Sansa Stark was not Genna... Catching himself, Tywin buoyed before that current of pique could pull him under.

The Freys had nothing but bitterness and a bridge with which to grope for leverage, and neither were enough to influence a kennel hand let alone a king.

And it was a king and a kingdom the lion was after. He had pushed negotiations, shaped and groomed them in a way that ensured success. His goal was so close he could see it, and yet, still so far away. Like squinting into daylight and cupping a hand in the hopes of holding the sun, Lord Tywin realized he was merely cradling air.

_But why reach for the sun when the moon is right here for the taking?_

The silence had started to whirl and buzz in her ears, then constrict like a fist around her. Despite the lurch of gloom, Sansa refused to move under the pressure of the Hand's mute scrutiny.

With the two of them left alone, he on the dais and she standing before it, one could not help but feel intimidated by the size of the throne room. Although, it was only as Lord Tywin narrowed his eyes at her, a look not of anger but something else entirely, that Sansa suddenly felt so very, very small.

"What do you make of the proceedings you witnessed?" He asked finally; his eyes still blazing, his tone cold in contrast.

It was as if she were built of wood, stacked and stiff, her muscles would not allow her to move when all she wanted to do was run away. At the same time, like when her finger ran under written words she was reading, Sansa picked out the important things stated that evening, finding the answer Lord Tywin wanted to hear.

"There is a way..." She rallied to breathe her question to life. "T-to end the war... without fighting?"

Lord Tywin hummed lightly in approval. "The Crown has every advantage now that your brother has broken his trust to Walder Frey. Though neither the North nor the Crossing knows their deceptions are being openly discussed. Do you understand the way of this, Lady Sansa?"

Her eyes welled and the room became watery. Sansa fought against her sorrow, stifling the want to simply weep and shake her head in some childish display, to deny she understood quite clearly that the lives of what was left of her family were very much at stake.

_...he didn't want her tears, he didn't want her fear…_

Opting instead to nod lightly, Sansa spoke a phrase she had heard her father say more than once.

"If you have knowledge you have power, my lord."

There was no hum of approval this time and Sansa wondered if she had said the words so quietly that perhaps Lord Tywin didn't hear-

"No, my lady. You are mistaken," he said, gazing ahead impassively as his charge looked first confused, then angry, then what could be easily described as wounded. "Knowledge is nothing more than knowledge, Lady Sansa." His voice, like a thick smoke, rolled slowly down and over each stone stair, pooling at the hem of her gown. There was no annoyance in his words, and Sansa was intrigued - breathing more heavily, in suspense of what he might say next. "Whatever power knowledge may hold comes only from what you _do_ with it."

A slow, steady weight settled in her chest. Sansa knew inherently that she was about to be used. She had no idea how or to what capacity, but she had felt this same way more than once - and always at the whim of the Crown.

_The steps of Baelor_, her mind whimpered, then was shocked back into the throne room.

"A marriage will save the realm." The heft on her heart increased with every syllable; her knees felt ready to buckle from it. His side whiskers moved as the words paused, Sansa knew he was grinding his teeth. "_And preserve the North_," he pushed out with a huff.

Each word sounded like a curse on the tongue of Lord Tywin, and he spit them out as though they tasted bitter.

Sansa swallowed hard. Her thoughts turned to Joffrey, she then felt a sudden hitch of betrayal. Lord Tywin had kept her safe for all these moons just to turn her over to a boy who loved to torment her? She could not help but think the North would rebel again if Joff had his way - his _real_ way - with her.

She thought of her father then. The sacrifice he had made for her. _Gods_, he had died for her. Because of her. Who was she to slight his memory, his honour, with her cowardice? She would do her duty - for the realm, yes, but more so for the North.

For Lord Eddard Stark.

"I-I will..." She began in a hushed squeak, unable to keep her eyes from flickering frantically around the man above her, but never actually _at_ him. "I will be a good queen, my lord." Sansa looked at Lord Tywin square, beseeching him to see her honesty, "I _swear_!"

He neither moved nor said a word. The old lion remained staid, looming over the terrified girl. At length, he spoke. "King Joffrey will marry, yes. But not of the North. Not you." His tone was as serious as his face, doing nothing to help her uncertainty.

It took more than a few moments, but the words finally nudged and shifted to understanding in her mind; when she trained her eyes on Lord Tywin's, her assumption was confirmed. The North was what the lion wanted. A kingdom that, if he could not have outright, the strongest alliance would be made.

And what was stronger than binding the only living sibling of a king?

The weight that hung behind her ribs sunk, making her belly feel queasy and leaden. The balance of loyalties tipped her from one guilt to the next; torn between the want of her family and the need to have them safe, the want of her freedom and the need to adhere to her duty.

Tywin recognized Lady Sansa's understanding the moment it stole over her features. With sight of that particular shadow, he waited. He waited for some sign of disgust or apprehension.

There were none of those things in Lady Sansa. Tywin wondered if she was simply projecting a lie. Although as soon as her head listed a fraction to the side while her eyes remained completely on his, the old lion understood differently. It was an act he'd witnessed in their time together that meant she was appraising.

Appraising _him_.

Favourably, even.

The same light lift held in this one studious look equaled those she invoked when he would permit her to handle him. It was ridiculous, the notion she could coax _anything_ from him. But it was no less wanted.

"What say you, my lady?"

His voice cut through the room and with it was cleaved their invisible tether; the old lion raised a brow at the little wolf's obvious startle.

Sansa gulped in the air she needed; if there was anything she had learned from Lord Tywin Lannister, it was never agree to anything without knowing everything. "If..." She shuffled a little closer to the steps of the dais, but kept his eye. "My lord, i-if we wed... My brother will stay King in the North?"

Lord Tywin did not move a muscle, and for a searing moment Sansa thought she had grossly miscalculated what was being negotiated. Until the man standing so tall, so high above her, nodded his head slow and deep. It was the only movement from him, but it was not the only thing she needed.

Dainty slippers lightly scuffed against marble once again, Sansa stood with her toes touching the bottom stair - of the stairs that led to _him_.

To her...

Potentially her...

"Please, my lord." Her eyes widened to take him in. "I need to hear the words," she whispered.

The Great Lion took a moment to assess her. This little girl. This child who thought to use his own unbending rules against him. Something sparked in him then, something primal and barbaric; seeing himself in the workings of Lady Sansa made him feel a god.

Invincible.

He was made of stone save for his breathing, which spiked a little higher. Taking deliberate steps down, closing the gap between them, her eyes seemed to only get bigger. Stopping one rise before her, Tywin peered directly downward - causing the Lady Sansa the bend her head back at a harsh angle.

"If the North ties to the West by marriage," his scowling mouth growled to her with natural gravity. "Through the eldest of Lord Eddard Stark's daughters to the Lord of Casterly Rock..." He lifted a brow; Sansa could easily tell it was not in amusement. "Robb Stark will keep his crown."

Sansa made to swallow at the contractual words, but her neck was at such a bend back that her mouth pulled open when she did. She looked like a fish, mouth gaped in shock or some such, and chided herself when Lord Tywin's scowl deepened.

Since the earliest she could remember, Sansa was called a lady. She was raised and praised in that role - even told she would be greater than her own mother. And this moment, here and now, was the crescendo of all that work and preparation. There was no one else to make this decision, no one to counsel her toward her best course. No one... save the man in front of her.

What she had learned of that very man was that he would never place himself in a detrimental position, nor would he angle himself, his house, or his name at a disadvantage. But, she considered carefully, she had been sloughed off from Joffrey, was the daughter of a confessed traitor, and the sister of a rebel king.

Sansa trawled hard to find her worth through the eyes of the intimidating man above her, but kept coming up empty with every tip of the bucket.

The little wolf narrowed her eyes slightly then, like she had seen _him_ do on many occasions, in an attempt to glean trickery. After all, trusting the hopeful words of golden Lannisters had lead to devastation in the past. But he gave her nothing - _nothing_. Aside from breathing, Lord Tywin was a void, disclosing not even a little.

It was in the stillness that Sansa hardened her resolve. Making her choice.

If Lord Tywin saw value in their union, it must be far greater than she could discern. With that leap of logic came a wary but definite lick of pride: that such a powerful, discriminating man would consider her above all others to be his wife.

She swallowed hard at that overwhelming thought, the action of which made her sound like that same fish her continued gaping invoked.

When the old lion's glare became pointed, Sansa realized she had not yet afforded an answered. She quickly nodded in agreement then, nodded to save her mother and her brother, and to herald a new king to guide the North. Everyone she had lost would be remembered and honoured; the dimming memories of those who had died would kindle anew under the rule of King Robb.

If it meant she would have to stay in the South then so be it. If it meant old torment from a new hand then so be it. That was her responsibility to them all.

Sansa graced her betrothed with a sincere smile and watched, baffled, as Lord Tywin's lips thinned, making him seem even more dour.

He bent lower, closer to her face, the puff of every breath a warm caress against her. "_I need to hear the words_, my lady," the lion purred.

There was a razor-fine line between condescension and command in Lord Tywin, and most often his motives were left muddy until someone acted toward him in a way he considered a slight. This was hardly the time for mistakes and was something Sansa refused to even guess upon how to reciprocate in kind.

The safest approach was the option she chose. "I accept, my lord," she said in a sober, dutiful voice - a tone traced as accurately as she could recall from the dulling memories of her lord father.

In return, his own tone was cool - his meaning was scorching.

"It will be your brother who truly decides. And with it, his destiny."

He did not see her move, yet felt her warm fingers slide up and over his. Tywin fought the immediate urge to yank his hand free; rather, he stood a moment, absorbing the tiny patterns her fingertips were drawing over the back of his hand. They were restless; fidgety circles and lines that denoted her own disquiet.

Sansa's gaze never faltered, her propriety a perfect mask, and the old lion knew then the girl was calming herself, not him. Suspicion made him sneer, but the better part of his judgment kept him static, allowing her to assuage whatever unease riled her.

After all, what was the cost of a small dose of comfort? She had never once sought favour from him.

After all, what was the value of a small dose of comfort? The one thing she had wanted above all else he had just burned to the ground.

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** A huge thank you to my beta, content developer, researcher, sounding-board, and internet life-partner: dealbreaker19 **

_(Any mistakes are mine alone. I tend to fiddle and tweak - up to posting)_


	4. Chapter 4

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They had been four moons into their campaign - almost double the time needed to journey from King's Landing to Riverrun, regardless of how many made your company - when Lord Tywin ordered his host stopped and their light encampment built for the last time.

Jaime, at the lead of the Lannister vanguard, had already pushed ahead to gain at least a sennight grace. Their orders were to make way through the Riverlands, group with a thousand men from Lannisport's levy at the marchland, and begin negotiating the marriage addendum as soon as they had made the gates of Riverrun.

It would allow a cushion not only for Catelyn Stark and her crowned son to bring to terms their decision, but allot the time needed for the rest of his force, five thousand men strong, to trickle in from the mountainous edges of the Westerlands. To move along the flanks of the Tully castle, a clandestine army, preparing to siege if the Starks and their ilk did not mediate favourably.

No matter the outcome, either way, the North would know the clout of House Lannister.

They were travelling at a purposefully unhurried pace and stopped within sight of Tully's keep. The old lion had every intention of making the northern and Riverland forces second guess his motives, ensuring them a sleepless night. And for some inside that castle, they would yearn and weep all the harder at the scant distance between them and their bounty.

_His _bounty.

The old lion rubbed absently at the inner plate of his right vambrace; more habit now than anything, sensing the smooth run of fabric and thread against his skin. Hiding there was his token, a favour he bestowed on himself. A swatch of rich crimson meticulously crosshatched, with the tiniest stitches he had ever seen, depicted a grand, golden lion sat stoic in the center of a sea of red. Running the edges, head to tail, on into infinity, were rampant wolves in a grey so lively it shimmered; as though the thread had been spun from the finest silver.

Tywin had never seen detail of such magnitude from anyone save a master crafter, certainly not from a lady, and most certainly not from one so young. The images had depth; the mane of that proud lion was woven with individual strands of the golden thread - some seemingly rubbed dull to make it darker, defining the shag of its fur.

He hated that he did not hate it. He despised that he had picked it up to begin with as he had swept out of the Hand's solar the morning of their departure. He was wroth that he kept it, could no longer conceive a day without it tucked somewhere against his person.

_The old lion rubbed absently as he bristled_.

Once the host settled and sorted, Lady Sansa met and supped with Lord Tywin in his tent - as was their custom on most evenings. As was also custom, they were accompanied then by a full table of the higher ranks amongst the Lannister regiments.

However, on this night, so close to their intent, as the evening waned, the talk shifted to terms mentioned in whispers, accented in side-eyed glances that let Sansa know her mere presence was impeding whatever the men around her deemed important.

Lord Tywin not once entertained her dismissal. In spite of the eventual parting of commanders and lords and personal guards, Sansa lingered.

Sometimes they talked - _more to it, the old lion spoke while the little wolf listened_ - sometimes they were silent, letting the notes and chords of existence play easily between them. Neither was a troubling circumstance; either scene was merely an excuse to wait. They needed time to unravel the skein of their lives, to loosen before they could ease into the comfortable pocket of companionship they'd created. Privately, inadvertently.

When Lady Sansa did approach, when her features softened in such a way, when her mouth curved so subtly she had no idea she was smiling, when her fingers extend and her hand made its gentle reach, he could not dwell on it. Tywin simply had to close his eyes and let it happen. In those initial heartbeats her touch incited such turmoil inside him, such complicated emotions, he felt distended. Contorted as though he were a bow - strung taut and mercilessly drawn. He had to fight and force an effort to bury every fraction of those pieces before the confusion of them let fly a bolt of his ire.

Growling an exhale the lion sounded like a wolf; after a moment he calmed, relaxing into his chair with a slink more befitting a cat.

Sansa stepped close; their touching of hands, legs, and most anywhere, long since an uncomfortable notion. They were going to be wed - _they were going to be!_ - and she _knew_ husbands and wives acted like this. She had seen it herself - still did, sometimes, when her dreams were harmless and kind.

Her legs pressed into Lord Tywin's knees, and without thought or provocation he opened them to allow her the space wordlessly asked for. She advanced a little, her fingers searching for nothing in particular across his collarbone, tracing the intricate pattern on his doublet. A swirling touch that stroked from his shoulders inward to his high collar and up.

Sansa advanced once again, as much as the vee of his legs was wont to allow.

The pressure of her thighs on his groin left his cock stirred half hard. There was no accompanying desire though, no thrumming tension of lust, just his body's reaction to a shifting heat against it. He was hardly a lecher, sporting or otherwise, but Tywin would have been more concerned if he hadn't stirred at all.

His face was fascinating, she found. Especially when his eyes were closed and he let himself melt a little under her hands. She scuffed nearer, her face higher than his, almost leaning full on him just to get a better look at her betrothed. The lamps cast him in gold, but there was no trace of the metal's unforgiving cold when she touched his skin. This close, in a dreary tent snapping against the damp winds of the Riverlands, the golden lord was undeniably warm.

In her life, she found that warmth meant relief; not of body, but of mind. Unfortunately, that kind of peace was also a rare luxury. Sansa leaned in along his torso and waited for him to protest, then carried on her exploration when she found only heat and silence.

The creases were still there on his face, those deep valleys she had picked out the first day she had been escorted to Lord Tywin's solar. In being so near she could see more lines; finer lines, nowhere the severe depth of the others. Little light lines that splayed at the corners of his mouth and the outer corners of his eyes.

Sansa ran a gentle finger over them one at a time at his eyes first, then mouth. These were lines she understood to the timber that built her, to her bones. The faint markings read like words, telling a tale of either laughter or loss.

Frowning at the sympathetic pain grinding away at her insides, she smoothed along his faint lines with a special kind of care. For Sansa could not imagine Lord Tywin laughing.

It was not fussy. It was respectful. A tome of compassion was recited in the girl's touch, and Tywin was patient enough in these times to oblige it. For when was the last time someone truly gave to him? Gave. Not out of fear or obligation, but of natural desire?

Tywin Lannister was a stubborn man, a man of vengeance and cruelty, but he was not so much a fool as to banish the one thing that gave him respite. He was still very much all of those things, yet with a focused calm he had an advantageous edge. More than an advantage even, he had an anchor. A mooring in the turbulent squalls that never ceased whipping around him, and _no one_ would take that away from him - or even attempt to - and live for the experience. No king, in any direction, would compel Lord Tywin to surrender what had become a keystone to his personal strength. He knew beyond the skin and meat of him, more and more every day, that he would not hesitate to kill for the sanctity of that internal balance.

He would kill for _her_. His little wolf.

Tywin let out a long, slow breath, simultaneously sedate and railing against the lure of sleep. He was tired. The journey was long and though there were no rigors of true warfare, there had been skirmishes encountered at the skirt of his host. It was expected once they had ventured well onto the River Road, but it made travel no less daunting, no less exhausting.

The old lion huffed out another deep lungful. He would tolerate a little more of her care then send the girl to her tents. It was better that way. Perhaps he would send for a whore... Perhaps with auburn hair... Make use of what she had started-

The sensation was peculiar and foreign, until it happened a second time. A warm brush over his lips. It wasn't her fingers, he knew what they felt like - fluttery sweeps until he would snarl, telling her none too kindly that her exploration was too light, causing her touch to tickle. No, this was different. By the third time he had placed it: her breath. He knew because it smelled sweetly of the Arbor Gold she had been drinking. But that was as much thought as was allowed before he felt warmth of another kind pressing soft and firm onto his mouth.

In one respect it was a child's kiss, chaste and innocent. Just her mouth laid against his, no movement or use of her hands to hold him in place. In quite another, it was the tentative endearment of one who would become a lover. Her lips lingered and he could feel her long, elegant fingers digging into his chest to help steady herself.

Tywin didn't know whether to blame shock or exhaustion, either way he allowed her to continue. But, like unwillingly waking from a pleasant dream, the lion trudged through a thick, sticky bog back to his senses.

It was barely there, the kiss. Truthfully, she hardly touched him at all before his hands wrapped around each of her arms and gently pushed her back a step. He held her there, not letting go, though there was no hurt in his grip. Sansa slowly blinked her eyes open, only vaguely aware she had closed them, and looked on as Lord Tywin made to stand. He was looking at her with a queer mixture of suspicion and… and something else... something softer.

She smiled at him then; nothing bright, more demure. Sansa wanted him to know she meant her kiss. But as soon as she wore it, Lord Tywin's face changed to the one that meant he could become very angry, very quickly. That earnest smile died, trying hard to drag her courage along with it. Sansa fought to keep calm, to hide her fear and wear her mettle.

Tywin looked at her, looking for mockery, for a game or leverage or anything, but there was only the blue of the Riverlands in her eyes - placid and sparking much like the water itself.

_Innocence or lies_... He shook his head at his own gods-damned folly.

Wanted.

The day he lied to himself was the day Tywin Lannister welcomed defeat and earned a place under the tread of those continually trying to climb above him. No, her attentions were _wanted_. In her hands he had always felt lifted. As the months plodded forward, and her affections became routine, the lion gloried in that lift. The pull that dragged him, a boneless wreck, from the tired groove worn into his life.

It was wanted.

_She_ was wanted.

But there had to be control.

One hand dropped away, the other brushed upward to rest draped on her shoulder, near to her neck. She saw in his cool, green eyes the working of deliberation. It was the same look she witnessed in the hall of the Hand when he would settle claims and act as fate. _Lord Tywin was _her_ fate, too_. His thumb thumped, not ungently, where it lay just below the bottom of her throat, and Sansa knew this was how he ticked through thoughts and facts to find answers.

"_Do not_ do that again," he grumbled. His thumb stilled and his fingertips pressed slightly where they had curled over her shoulder.

Youth sidestepped common sense in that moment, tripping down the path to foolishness.

"Ever?" she said. It was no small mercy there was no whine to it - that immediate response her mouth slung before the rest of her considered the consequence. It was a single word painted fully in ignorance - in impatience and selfishness and conceit - in the green of her maturity.

Sansa swallowed audibly as she watched Lord Tywin's ire crawl through him, felt it seize him where his hand lay. Unable to flee or move, the hand at her neck and shoulder gripped tighter.

She remembered then that the man before her still very much drew her fear. That she was an absolute fool to even _think_ she had won some sort of victory over him that way.

_Fools die faster_.

There they were a less than a day from the gates of Riverrun, mere steps from seeing her brother and her mother...

Lord Tywin's face seemed to twist to fit his anger; built of those deep, intricate lines and eyes that burned right through her. She trembled under the burden of his stare and wondered if her mother would forgive her for making it so close to see her, but not far enough.

Sansa first averted her gaze, then turned her head slightly; as if not acknowledging his ire would ward herself from it. She felt his hand move from her shoulder to her neck, the action gentle - a lull, if anything - and she worked her throat to abate a wave of nausea.

The Stranger was coming for her, he must be.

The tips of his long fingers draped around the back of her neck and Sansa heard herself whimper. Every move was subtle though, nothing hurt her. The quick violence that had her held fast over scrolls and parchment was nowhere, but she didn't know if that was just a ploy - part of the Great Lion's game of torment.

His thumb curled to the front of her chin, and she felt sure she would make water right there where she stood. Although, instead of a strangle, Lord Tywin used the same subtle pressure he had used that day on his desk - the barest of touches, really - to turn her face back to his.

Lord Tywin was not seething, and she lightened at her heart's meager unclenching. Every part of him that usually heaved and roiled in fury held undisturbed. The flush that began his temper still profiled along his neck, if not shades lighter; as well, the lines on his face, the ones that mapped his anger, were lesser - still there, though not as substantial.

Kisses were supposed to be _soothing_, kisses were supposed to be _pleasing_, and Sansa could not understand what she had done so wrong to foul the man in such a way.

Perhaps hers were marred in some way or… or perhaps they were simply unwanted.

Her mind decried the idea of being no more than a duty to a husband. Her regret chewed at her, burned her heart and scorched the ribs caging it. She knew she should have left well enough alone, not pushed him, but she so wanted her betrothed to see her as a worthy lady... like in the songs.

How foolish to think hope and romance even existed anymore. To Sansa Stark, those ideals began their slow, painful death with her descent south along the King's Road.

Swallowing back a knot of self pity, Sansa fought away tears as she acknowledged the cull of yet one more dream. Lord Tywin had no use of childhood fancy. If they were to become husband and wife, her use would be for peace and to carry his heir in her belly.

Tilting her head back and blinking rapidly, she took him in. His eyes flicked here and there, never away from her face, but not on one spot either. His nostrils flared and his mouth was an ugly, thin line pulled down at the corners.

This was the man she agreed to marry. He was utterly harrowing.

But, no. _No_. She knew how to push that dread back, how to calm that rage. She knew the way, and what it required of her.

Starting where his arm peeked out from under the cuff of his sleeve, Sansa drew her fingertips along the corded muscles of this forearm, over and around what felt like silk underneath, a slow journey mapped the protruding bump of bone and cartilage at his wrist. There she changed trajectory again, brushing over the top of his hand, where it laid rested along the side of her neck. She trailed every scar and line she could find by touch; traveled lightly, this way and that, until her hand ran in the same direction and her fingertips drifted over the webbing at the base of his own fingers, sliding flush and snug between them.

Her heart was galloping; surely Lord Tywin could feel the speed of her pulse. It took everything she was made of to keep breathing, to keep standing. There had been no previous time she had touched the Hand of the King when his eyes remained fixed on her. Not like this, not like now. He hadn't said a word during her tactile course, but his eyes… His eyes pitched from expectant to leery, and amidst it all they gave way to bouts of the indefinable.

Sansa found it undeniably thrilling.

Pulling in a deep breath of air, Sansa gathered her determination and spoke. "Apologies, my lord," she said solemnly. Effectively eating her fear and giving him what she knew he appreciated - _as much as Lord Tywin could appreciate anything_. Respect.

He nodded at this. One easy loll of his head, but when he raised it again his eyelids stayed almost closed. All she could do was watch him - her chin and neck were still in his hand. Sansa felt his thumb move; from the point of her chin, upward. The action was slow, more so hesitant, but not unpleasant. When it came to rest on the ridge of her bottom lip, Sansa gasped in surprise and, as was her habit when nerves threatened to conquer, she curled that lip into the clutch of her teeth.

Lord Tywin blinked slowly; his left brow raised slightly, and moved his thumb again. His voice found her ears, but sounded as though he talked around her - like she was standing on the other side of the tent and not a hand's width away.

"Just for now, girl. Not forever."

It took her a moment to realize his hazy statement was an answer to her ridiculous question. But her mind revoked _any_ thought when the pad of his thumb rested at the center of her bottom lip - or where her lip _would_ have been if she had let it go.

Lord Tywin swallowed, hard. The bulb in his throat bobbed like ripe fruit on a vine, ready for picking, then she felt him pull with his thumb - tugging her lip from the catch of her teeth.

He was so gentle. Languid eyes stayed drawn to where his thumb lay. Her accidental reply was gentle, too: mouth parting naturally, teeth grazing the flat of his thumb.

Although his face was made of stone, Sansa caught the sharp intake of breath that bowed the lion's chest and moved his doublet. It played at the center of her vision and caused Sansa's flush to broaden. Though, not for the reason of shame.

No. The Great Lion's composure bent to her will in that tiny grain of time and Sansa could see that as plain as day. It was powerful. It was _power_. A tangible shift, like opening a door between a warm room and the cold outside. She felt herself sway slightly on her heels from the impact.

The rush she experienced was leverage and advantage, and every other word she had heard the Hand say that meant influence. However, Lord Tywin was made of influence, not her. Never her. But his weakness was her gain, she understood that well enough. She understood more than well, in fact, was taught more than well while sitting in the periphery of a master.

Whatever she had done to gain her edge, she would have to examine and determine if she could do it again. Uncloaking a flaw in a perceptibly flawless man gave her renewed confidence. It told her that in no uncertain terms: no matter the man, no matter their prestige, they all had a chink in their armour.

_Whatever power knowledge may hold comes only from what you _do_ with it. _And what an incredibly poignant lesson it was - more to witness it unfurl before her.

As though stepping out of a fog, the old lion straightened taller, blinked his eyes, took stock of his position - _of their position_ - and let his hand drop away, shaking off hers in the process.

An old breed of quiet resurfaced, churning amidst them, beginning to eat away at her conscience. Sansa didn't like it, didn't like the way they made her feel - swatting aside her fortitude and reminding her exactly who she was, what she was. All at once her edge, her power, faded back into nothing. Once more a timid and frightened girl.

It was her fear that found a voice, uncertainty provided the words. "What if my brother says no, my lord? What... What if..."

Lord Tywin's face slacked ever so slightly, his eyes dulled ever so minutely, and Sansa knew to be scared. To the marrow of her, she knew this man's terror. For even in the silence she heard his words; his sentiment was clear and profound: _If your brother denies me, he will perish... If your brother denies me, your mother will perish... If your brother denies me, the North will perish..._

He observed impassively as her skin become ashen, aware he had frightened the little wolf.

_Good_.

Control.

"If your brother deserves the crown he has been given, my lady, his decision will be sound."

There was nothing definitive in his statement, certainly nothing reassuring, yet once again she heard what remained unspoken. She wondered idly then if he held some sort of enchantment - the ability to speak in an unsaid language - then understood almost immediately that there was no sorcery in him at all. His was merely the same trait of all those she had ever encountered who were domineering and arrogant.

Sansa had meant to feel stupid at her revelation but suddenly had no use for that kind of self abasement. A tiny roar of power rippled through her, familiar in the way it made her feel strong, but this time it was well under her flesh; out of the way and something made for her alone. Then it was clear: this power had nothing to do with authority over Lord Tywin, and everything to do with authority over herself.

Gone was the grey tint to her skin and present was a light pink flush pooled at her cheeks. The colour of health, not embarrassment. Her eyes were clear, radiant even, and Tywin watched the rest of her lose its pent up tension.

Lady Sansa was readying to speak. Tywin felt oddly anticipatory.

"He _does_ deserve it, my lord."

Every hair stood up on his arms. However, the silk of his secret favour resisted the rise, creating a palpable wave of sensation followed by a wash of gooseflesh. Tywin shivered openly.

She was not rehearsed, nor was her tone flat. There was passion in her voice, but she held it back for the most part, reined it in and presented a tremendous confidence the lion had not seen in her prior.

His breathing sped minutely - it was the only excitement he would allow himself.

One side of his mouth curved upward minutely - it was the only approval he would allow her.

Fingertips returned to the back of her neck and brushed along the line of her spine in a mindful cadence. The touch bolstered her in a way, reinforced her duty and the choice she had already made.

Lord Tywin spoke and gone was dominance and audacity; prevailing was something she could only describe as sincerity.

It was new to her ears.

She liked it very much.

"Then we have nothing to question, Sansa."

If the use of her name vexed her at all, she kept it hidden. Lady Sansa nodded though, a tight little incline of her head, an action plucked directly from his own traits.

The lion's mouth twitched playfully at the corners. He _was_ a god. Hers.

But even gods slept, he was sure. There was simply too much between them to address in one evening, particularly given everything that had just transpired - and would transpire in the days to come. Tywin used the light hold he had on the back of her neck to gradually turn her toward the entrance of his tent.

He spoke as he walked, guiding her with a terse kind of tenderness. He spoke with that same type of shine. "Tomorrow will be a full day of travel and reunion, my lady. See that you rest."

A ready summons had four men in red and gold armour flanking her, waiting for her command by way of movement. With the polite courtesy she would never abandon, Sansa bid goodnight to Lord Tywin and set out to her accommodation.

Tywin turned away, but hesitated at the sound of armour halting. Pivoting on his heel, he looked through the flap opening of his tent to Lady Sansa; she had stopped a few short paces away. Lit with inconsistent light, that of the torch-lined pathways between the most prominent tents, the skin on her hands bloomed in gold from the flames, red tendrils of her hair whipped in the wind, and his chest ached in a way he knew was far removed from death, but no less fearsome.

The old lion could not look away if he wanted to.

The little wolf held fallow, her sentries whist, looking only ahead - knowing all too well their place amongst their betters.

She turned to him then, his northern girl, just her head - chin tucked along her shoulder - and she smiled. A smile built _for_ him: painted nowhere on her mouth, dancing everywhere in her eyes.

Green glittered directly at blue, making her feel hot and cold at the same time. Sansa understood blatantly she was teetering precariously between his ire and what passed for his amusement - which was something akin to annoyance.

But there. _Right there!_ Sansa saw it. He wasn't just narrowing his eyes, telling her she was a insipid - the squint didn't go all the way. At the corners of his eyes were fine lines, not deep ones. She'd touched them, she knew what they meant!

In the time it took her to catch her breath, Lord Tywin had already spun away into the dim recess of his tent. Sansa righted her direction and began walking once more - floating, really, for the amount of elation in her blood.

She felt fit to soar.

Her lion had found his laughter.

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** A huge thank you to my beta, content developer, researcher, sounding-board, and internet life-partner: dealbreaker19 **

** A nod of gratitude toward Telanu. You know why **

_(Any mistakes are mine alone. I tend to fiddle and tweak - up to posting)_


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